


to sail on time's tide

by wearethewitches



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alien Abduction, Blind Twelfth Doctor, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Fobwatched Time Lord, Gen, Hybrids, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple Doctors (Doctor Who), Psychic Paper, Reunions, Sonic Screwdriver, Sonic Sunglasses (Doctor Who), Temporal Paradox, Time Lords and Ladies, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-03 13:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14570244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Ase Len'sim: a planet full of paradoxes and friendly faces. When six different incarnations of the Doctor are invited to a party, they discover many future and former companions from their adventures that have been abducted - but to what purpose?And who in the universe is Lady Larn?





	1. cordially invited

Bill rushes out the door first – no control, that girl. Twelve follows her at a more sedate pace, lines of text communicated directly into his head from his sonic sunglasses telling them when and where they are, what their surroundings are like, what’s the weather, temperature and wind-speed and, oddly enough, the high amount of _time_ radiation, as it were – well, he’d call it time radiation if he had to explain it to Bill.

 _A nexus of paradoxes and fixed points,_ he shivers as it all brushes over him. The only examples he can think of as adequate parallels are the times when he’s met his past self, but never this strong. _There’s something fishy going on here…_

“Bill,” Twelve starts, “don’t go far. There’s something not right.”

Bill is twirling in place slowly, “Doctor, there are aliens… _everywhere._ ”

“Don’t be rude,” he chides, “you’re the alien here.”

“Really?”

“Really, really,” Twelve repeats himself, just to make himself clear. “Really, really. This is the planet of Ase Len’sim. It has a population of two billion and a half, tourists and traders not withstanding, with only a ten percent human majority.”

“And they’re like, future humans? Not humans like me?” Bill questions.

“Yes, well, some of them have picked up some…decidedly non-human genes by now, yes.” Twelve tries to shrug off the subject, changing the subject, “But disregarding that, we’ve been invited to a party.”

“Ooh! Yes!” Bill claps, jumping on the spot, “Space party! How do I look?”

“Great,” Twelve says, forcing himself not to wince – he has to keep up the charade that everything is fine, that he has his sight back. Bill would be disappointed in him for not being honest with her if she found out, but he has a duty of care, one he won’t relent in. Not again, not after whoever his Impossible Girl is… “You did something with your hair.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Bill replies chipperly, coming close and digging her arm through his. “So – where to?”

“This way,” he leads her through the crowd, relying on his sunglasses to give him approximations of where everyone is. To be fair, it works pretty well and he only bumps into people when they’re being deliberately obtuse over personal space.

Leaving the TARDIS sitting in two hover-cycle parking spots, Twelve listens to Bill’s _ooh’s_ and _ahh’s_ , pushing them forwards through the city, feeling all the while like he’s about to be hit by lightning. They traverse the multi-layered alien city, taking a hover-plate two levels higher, Bill clutching him tight as they zoom upwards. Twelve hardly cares, too distracted by the pressing feeling of _not right._

“Who invited you to a party, then?” questions his young human. “I didn’t think you had friends who’d invite you to- I mean, I didn’t- I thought…”

“Do go on,” Twelve pushes amusedly for a moment, distracted from the feeling by her stuttering. Bill rolls her eyes.

“I just mean,” she starts impatiently, “I didn’t realise you got out enough to get invited to parties in fancy alien cities that look like something out of a Final Fantasy game-”

“We’re both invited,” Twelve interrupts, spare hand digging into his pocket, flipping his psychic paper out for her to see, briefly taking the moment to thank his TARDIS for linking his sunglasses and the handy wallet previously, before he became blind. “See.”

Bill takes the device from him, peering at it. “‘ _The twelfth Doctor of St. Luke’s University and Miss Bill Carrie Potts are cordially invited to the following space-time coordinates. RSVPs are not necessary. Love, Lady J. Larn_.’ Huh, full names – what does it mean by ‘twelfth’?”

“I’m the twelfth, technically fourteenth incarnation of myself,” Twelve explains, sunglasses telling him to take a left and walk twenty-two paces forwards.

“But what does that mean? Do you have an alien trick or is ‘the Doctor’ something that’s passed down?”

“An alien trick,” Twelve says, pulling Bill forwards faster until they reach their destination, stopping abruptly. “We’re here.”

“…here isn’t very party-ish,” Bill says, before Twelve hears a familiar voice far-off in the crowd, one he immediately tunes into as his confusion spikes.

“-supposed to just show up? Like I believe that,” the person scoffs, “As if _the Doctor_ is going to be right where we’ve been told to go.”

Twelve twists, glasses cataloguing the crowd – _varden, hath, trio of Slitheen, waste refuse_ – before two humans pop up on his radar. His sunglasses catalogue the speaker first, before labelling them _known_ and giving his name, followed by his friends.

_Mickey Smith_

_Martha Jones_

Martha sighs, the sound registering in his brain immediately as her frustrated sigh. “It’s not like we’ve got much choice. We’re stranded here and if Jack is right-”

“Jack got whammied at a bar in the future and got his vortex manipulator taken off him, how does _he_ know that we’re in the sixty-third century?”

“Doctor?” Bill questions, snapping him out of his reverie. “What’s up?”

“Old friends,” Twelve says, surprise audible, before he calls out, “Martha Jones and the tin dog! What in the hells are you doing on Ase Len’sim?”

They look over at him sharply, making their way over.

“Excuse me, do you know us?” Martha questions. “Why did you call my husband a tin dog?”

“Because he’s the tin dog,” Twelve says, puffing up, “The K9 to my old face and Rose Tyler. It’s _me_.” There’s a moment of silence. “…the Doctor.”

“…holy shit, you got _old,_ man!” Mickey exclaims, “Jack wasn’t kidding on about you changing faces every couple of centuries!”

Twelve frowns deeply, “I don’t look that old.”

“Yeah, you really do,” Mickey sniggers, before shaking his head, not hesitating before stepping over to embrace him. Twelve stands there awkwardly as Mickey pats his back. “Good to see you, Doc.”

“Let go of me,” Twelve orders, before Martha addresses Bill.

“Hi, I’m Martha – Dr Martha Jones. This is my husband, Mickey. We used to travel with the Doctor, when he had a different face.”

“Bill,” Bill greets, the two shaking hands. “The whole ‘different face’ is new to me. Really new. Like…ten seconds ago, new.”

“Don’t worry, he never even told me,” Martha says jokingly, before Mickey drawls.

“Yeah and he showed up with a completely new body and the after-affects of it at my old estate completely out of the blue. Got to tell you, didn’t believe it for a while.”

“Yes, you saw two faces, didn’t you?” Twelve interjects, recalling that Mickey had, of course, seen both ‘nine’ and ‘ten’.

“It was insane,” Mickey nods to himself.

“Are you here for the party, too?” Bill questions.

“We were abducted, actually,” Martha explains. “So was Jack – Captain Jack Harkness, he’s a friend of ours. He travelled with the Doctor too, actually. Jack was at an alien bar when he got snatched up.”

“I heard you earlier – no vortex manipulator for him,” Twelve’s brows furrow together. “Whoever brought you three here obviously did it for a reason.”

“But why kidnap them and just invite us?” Bill asks.

“It’s exceedingly difficult to kidnap me,” Twelve replies lowly. “They’re intelligent. The problem here now is…what have they brought us together for?”

“If you were trying to make us hope, you failed,” Mickey mutters.

“Now why would I ever do that?”

* * *

_Whvorp-whvorp, whvorp-whvorp…_

The TARDIS lands with its usual noises and as Nine steps out the doors, he takes a moment to glance at the psychic paper.

_Dear Doctor, you are cordially invited to the following space-time coordinates for a medium-to-medium large gathering with friends and family. RSVPs are far from necessary, so don’t send one and yes, this is directed at the 9 th Doctor. Love, J. Larn (I’d come pick you up, but I’m aware you’re not a fan of vortex manipulators, so do come via your TARDIS)_

“Friends and family,” Nine tucks the psychic paper back into his jacket, trying to ignore the bubble of pain in his chest, “how presumptuous to think I have one.”

Quite honestly, the only reason Nine is here is because of the vortex manipulator threat – he has no designs on allowing himself to travel via one of _those_ shoddy pieces of time tech, if he can help it. Not to mention, _Larn._ Nine has heard that name before, but he can’t remember where. It’s at the tip of his tongue, alongside a taste of foreboding.

Taking out his sonic screwdriver, Nine flips it in hand before tucking it back into his pocket.

“Let’s be fashionably late,” he says to it before walking jauntily into the crowd, letting himself get lost in it as memories of the Time War start to take over his noggin. At some point, he finds himself in a rooftop park. He doesn’t know how he got there or where his feet have really taken him, but he knows that past the scent of grass, he can smell a paradox approaching.

 _There’s something wrong with this city,_ he thinks, looking out on the bustling metropolis, feeling the spread of complex time across it, all the way to the limits. He opens himself up to it more and more, the energies causing him to near-shudder – but he keeps it inside, forcing his reaction away without even thinking about it. His own actions make him feel disgusted with himself, remembering how his eighth body made himself learn it over and over again when he forgot, until he couldn’t take it anymore. _Eight wasn’t built for war,_ Nine broods.

Someone comes to stand beside him, sipping champagne.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she says and Nine looks at the city properly, tilting his head side to side, watching trade shuttles shoot up off into the atmosphere.

“Maybe. In a couple of centuries, you might be looking at some heavy climate change though – planets with heavy foot-traffic like this get awfully polluted.”

The woman chuckles. “Well, aren’t _you_ a cynic. Though, the locals terraformed this planet quite recently, relatively – it should be still fluctuating somewhat, enough to adjust.”

“Relatively,” Nine repeats, wondering at her phrasing, whether she means in the last century or the last thousand years – he thinks it’s closer to the former, however, judging by the architexture. He chances a glance at her, eyeing the riot of golden curls that spill over her shoulders and then catching sight of the vortex manipulator on the wrist of the hand holding her champagne. “Oh, it’s _you_.”

“Me?” the woman looks his way, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t think you remembered. Lipstick must have been past it’s use-by date.”

“That makes no sense,” Nine says, giving a faux grin. “Now be a nice girl and tell me why I’m here.”

“I think you have the wrong girl,” the woman says, holding out her spare hand. “Professor River Song. Doctor.”

Nine shakes her hand, grin fading as he gets a sense of something _Big_ surrounding her, time wrapped around her almost under her skin – so strange and terrifying, a familiar sensation that Nine had just about made himself forget, only to be reminded now again by this woman, no-

“You’re a Time Lady,” he says, horrified, before he pulls his senses in, locking them all up tight. “How did you escape the lock?”

River Song looks at him in amused bafflement, so calm in the face of his fright. “Oh, you _are_ so _very_ young, Doctor.” Using their gripped hands, she pulls him forwards, closer – close enough, for Nine. He pulls back swiftly, their hands disengaging, only…

He pats his pocket upon seeing the psychic paper in her hand, eyes already scanning the invitation.

“I see. No, I’m not quite the time traveller you’re looking for, I’m afraid,” River holds it out to him and Nine snatches it back, eyeing her with suspicion. “Also unlike you, I came here quite unwillingly. The last thing I remember before appearing here in this garden was-”

She stops unexpectedly, snapping her mouth closed. Immediately, Nine’s interest is piqued. He looks her up and down, not getting distracted this time. River is dressed fully in red, dark velvet tunic reaching down to her ankles, long sleeves buttoned at the ends. A chain attached to a pair of broaches with the seal of Rassilon emblazoned on them holds an as-equally red cloak around her shoulders.

“You were on Gallifrey,” Nine says.

“No,” River replies, frowning, “I…I was dying. I was about to die, rather. It was all rather dramatic and horrible, but it was that or erase myself from history by allowing the only reason I exist to die IN my place.”

Nine looks at her sceptically, “How did that happen?”

“Spoilers,” she says, before placing her champagne on a nearby floating server tray, checking her vortex manipulator. Nine watches her fiddle with it, but the machine doesn’t even turn on, let alone transport her away. She sighs. “Right. Well, I need a ride. Mind if we pop in your TARDIS for a turn or two, sweetie?”

“I’m not your sweetie and no, we won’t be doing that,” Nine says. “Who are you really?”

She smiles at him, eyes tired but sparkling, “Oh, darling, you’re going to have to ask me that many, _many_ more times before I answer that. Trust me: I remember.”

“Wait, wait, wait-” Nine starts, only just catching up on everything she’s been implying, “You know me. You knew who I was the moment we started talking.”

“A little before that, actually,” River corrects, “Your brooding face is _exceptionally_ recognisable.”

“I wasn’t making a face.”

“Yes, you were.”

Nine huffs, “No, I was not. Now, tell me the truth: if you didn’t invite me here, who did?”

“I’d assume, ‘J. Larn’,” River replies cheekily. Nine glares. “Sweetie, now _don’t_ go making that face at me – I genuinely have no idea who this person is. Though, I will assume they care about you quite a bit.”

Nine loses his glare, frowning, “How do you reckon that?”

River leans forwards, tapping his psychic paper. “Who else but those who love you would dare say it to you on an invitation?”

* * *

_ May 8th, Year 6283 of the New Byzantine Calendar, Ase Len’sim – One Year Prior to the Party _

“-and here’s your room.”

Donna opens the door, tilting her head inside. The room is normal, everything you’d expect from a guest room – double bed, side-tables, spare vanity with a hair-dryer – and Donna can even ignore how the bedside alarm-clock is a hologram, with a flickering sun above it mimicking the one outside.

Jennifer pauses, “Donna. I know this has been hard for you, but I really think you could be comfortable here with me.”

“I was kidnapped by a time traveller,” Donna huffs, pushing away her migraine as she enters her new room, pulling along her suitcase behind her. “Until I get home to my family, I’m _never_ going to be comfortable – but thanks, anyway. You’ve been good to me.”

Twisting, Donna looks back at her friend from the future, gaze drifting past her copper hair and rosy skin to her shirt, pausing as she recognises the flowery fabric.

“Is that my shirt?”

Jennifer straightens abruptly, covering her torso briefly. “No!” Donna gives Jennifer a _look_ , knowing she’s lying. Jennifer keeps an innocent face, however, crossing her arms. “It’s not your shirt.”

“Yeah, right,” Donna smiles, shaking her head, “Try again, sweetheart. It’s fine – it was a bit too small for me anyway.”

“Was that a comment on your weight? Because you’re perfectly within range,” Jennifer replies cheerily, causing Donna to snort.

“I keep telling you – humans in the past are different, we’re not like the fancy ones you get nowadays, you silly alien.”

“I’m not silly,” Jennifer pouts, drifting forwards to hug Donna tightly, something she does often and that Donna just lets happen now – it’s not as if she’s got anyone else giving her hugs. After all, Jennifer is the only one who can understand a flipping word that comes out her mouth and vice versa because of her alienness, not that she _looks_ like more than the average human. “Donna?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I know you want to go home, but I like having you here,” Jennifer murmurs, words barely audible. “I like having my friend.”

“Thanks,” Donna squeezes her lightly. “Now, let’s get me unpacked.”

* * *

_ May 8th, Year 6284 of the New Byzantine Calendar, Ase Len’sim – the Present _

He stares for a few frozen seconds, hearts beating a samba in his chest. Then, he stalks forwards, approaching and then ducking behind a rack of vintage jumpsuits as she looks his way, walking in pursuit of the hat-stall on the other side of the aisle, chattering away to her friend.

“-and then the police just brought me home. Oh, my mum was _fuming_ but my granddad, well, he laughed his head off, didn’t he?” Donna laughs, her as-equally ginger friend sniggering. Eleven stares at them both, noting how Donna wears the local style of dress – Ase Len’sim’s approximation of a tunic with a belt, set of leggings and boots. Likewise, her friend is in the same, except her tunic doesn’t have arms and there’s a certain bump to her belly.

“I wish I knew my grandparents,” the friend says genuinely, “but your granddad sounds great.”

“He is,” Donna replies fondly and awfully wistfully, picking up a hat and trying it on, looking at herself in a mirror and accidentally meeting eyes with Eleven. He panics as she twists to face him. “Oi, what you staring at, weirdo?”

“I-I- just, I just…” Eleven starts, not expecting for all the blood to rush out of Donna’s face.

“You can understand me?”

Eleven’s brows knit together, “Yes?”

“Who are you?” the friend questions, staring at him. “No-one else in the _galaxy_ speaks Donna’s English.”

 _I’m not speaking English,_ Eleven thinks, realising that the TARDIS translation circuits aren’t working in his favour right now – not if Donna is used to hearing gobbledegook.

“Who are you?” he turns her question on herself, pulling his shoulders up so he isn’t just crouching by a rack of jumpsuits. “Which is a far better question.”

“We asked you first, beanpole,” Donna states, drawing herself up like Eleven had. Frankly, as Eleven shrinks again, intimidated, he should be used to ginger females telling him what to do. “You tell us who you are first.”

“John,” he says quickly, half under his breath, “John Smith.”

Donna rolls her eyes, “Like we believe that.” She hollers for a shop worker, passing them her shopping basket, her friend speaking to them quickly, asking them to charge and send the items to an address high in the city – on the top level, if Eleven isn’t mistaken. He tries to slip away, but a hand grabs his elbow, holding him in place. He looks back, meeting Donna Noble’s fiery gaze.

“And where do you think you’re going? You’re coming with _us_ , sunshine.”

 


	2. old friends

They’d sat down at some alien café that declared it’s newly-refurbished status on a billboard above them and ordered some alien drinks while they waited for ‘Jack’ to return – honestly, Bill is setting aside the fact that her professor has _friends_ , just because she’s drinking some _alien version of coffee._

“Well, more like an alien version of mango juice, or mango smoothie, but the caffeine content is extremely high, so might as well call it coffee,” Twelve says magnanimously.

“Are you sure we should be having it, then?” Martha questions tentatively, eyeing her drink. Twelve shrugs, drinking his own beverage – something which looks like an ice tea, but neon blue. _Maybe more like a Long Island tea_ , Bill corrects herself.

“What you been up to, then?” Mickey questions, “Saving the universe and all that?”

“A couple of times, yes,” Twelve says. “There was another Big Bang, I married my own assassin, I brought back Gallifrey…”

In sync, the three companions all exclaim one thing or the other. Bill goes with, “Another Big Bang?” While Martha goes with “You brought back your planet?” and Mickey nearly falls off his chair shouting, “You got _married?_ ”

Twelve focuses on Martha, “Yes, I brought back my planet. Turns out, I never locked it away in the first place – just hid it in a pocket universe. The war is over, they’re recovering. The Time Lords have returned and the walls of the worlds are open again.”

“But you got _married_ ,” Mickey starts, causing Twelve to roll his eyes.

“Yes, I did. Her name was River.”

Bill’s eyes widen, hearing the past tense. Her heart goes out to the Time Lord, even though she knows she’s heard him talking to her picture when he thinks no-one’s listening – like she’s still alive. Bill settles back in her seat, drinking her space mango coffee, casually eyeing up Martha even though she knows she’s taken, the ‘husband’ comment having been a minor blow. _That hair must have taken all day,_ Bill notes, aware that braids that long could take something like ten hours to do.

“Professor?” Bill addresses after a long moment of silence.

“Yes, Bill?”

“How could there have been another Big Bang? I thought the Big Bang was like…the start of the universe?”

“And it was – and so was this one.”

Then, he weaves a tale of mystery, danger and intrigue. He regales them of how his wife vandalised the oldest cliff-face in the universe, how _the_ Vincent Van Gogh painted an exploding TARDIS and left him coordinates to the legendary Pandorica.

“Not to mention, my father-in-law came back from the dead,” Twelve adds casually, Mickey and Bill both choking slightly on their drinks.

“Really? How?”

“Well, he technically didn’t exist in the first place, which is a whole other story – basically, he was erased from history by a crack in the universe, which was caused by the TARDIS exploding in the future-”

“Yeah and it was really weird,” says a man behind Twelve, looking down at his fluffy grey head in amusement. “Doctor.”

Twelve almost spasms in his chair, twisting around and nearly falling off it as he faces the man, who Bill actually takes more than a moment to look at. Blonde, with a decidedly forties haircut, the man wears an old-fashioned grey pinstriped three-piece suit with a white shirt, suspenders and a red tie, jacket slung over his shoulder. By his side is a woman dressed in a blue dress tapered at the waist who Bill – surprisingly – recognises from billboards, red hair done up in a bun.

“Rory. Amy. What are you doing here?”

“We were invited,” Amy says, poking him on the forehead. “You got old. How’d that happen? Thought you were immortal.”

“Regeneration. It’s a thing.” Twelve says, sounding shocked. “How are you here? You’re supposed to be trapped in New York.”

“Surprisingly, there’s this thing called a bus,” Rory replies calmly, sarcasm _lit._ Bill stares. “What’s with the stupid sunglasses?”

“They’re sonic,” he replies, before Amy huffs and grabs them, tugging them off his face. “Hey!”

“Don’t _hey_ me,” Amy says hotly, then abruptly recoils, right as she puts them up on top of her head. “What the hell happened to your eyes?”

Bill stiffens, leaning back on her chair to see Twelve’s face, guilt flooding through her at the milky pupils.

“Doctor, you said your eyes were fine, that they were back to normal!” Bill cries. “You’re still blind!”

“Blind?” Mickey exclaims, before Rory takes his face gently, peering close as Martha gets to her feet, joining him.

“Oh my,” Martha murmurs, glancing at the other man. “Dr Martha Jones.”

“Rory Williams, nurse,” he replies. “Do you have any vision?”

“Nothing. Not even light perception,” Twelve says. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

An uncomfortable sensation gnaws at her belly and Bill has to put her drink down, swallowing guiltily. This is all her fault. Just because she wanted to go on some stupid adventures-

“ _Don’t_ feel bad about this, Bill,” he snaps, blank eyes looking in her direction. “This is on me.”

“But you’re _blind_ ,” she says.

“The Doctor is taking responsibility for this,” Rory says, voice still full of that strange, confident _calm_. “I’d advise listening.”

“But-” Bill starts, before Mickey reaches over, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it. The Doctor’s dealt with worse.”

“That doesn’t make it _right!_ ”

Mickey forces her to meet his eyes. “Bill. He knows. It’s all over his face. It’s done though – nothing you can do about it.”

Bill wants to fight him on it, tell him exactly how Twelve lost his sight, but yet another new person joins them, drawing up a chair and swinging their feet up on the table.

“Howdy,” the man greets, American accent strange compared to the primarily Scotland, England and London vibes Bill had been getting before. He winks at her. “Hello, stranger.”

“Jack, don’t,” Twelve says, not even greeting him properly. “Everyone at this table is either married or a lesbian.”

“Where does that leave you, then?” Jack flirts with him, disturbing Bill slightly.

“He’s married too,” Bill puts in, giving the trench-coated man a weird look. Jack glances at her, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“Really? That’s new. Who’s the lucky fella?”

“An assassin called River,” Mickey says, obviously amused by the fact. The two men fist-bump casually. “Captain Cheesecake.”

“Mickey Mouse,” Jack replies, before tipping his head to Martha. “Martha Jones, voice of a nightingale.”

“Jack, hey,” Martha actually moves to hug him, leaning down. Bill wonders if this is what it’s supposed to be like – knowing all of Twelve’s friends and actually being friends with them, too. “It’s been a while since we saw each other.”

“Planets in the sky?” Jack asks, getting an affirmative from the other time traveller before she goes to sit beside Mickey again, Rory and Amy pulling up chairs from a nearby empty table to sit between Jack and Twelve, the Jones-Smith’s shifting around so there’s more room, Jack copying them after a moment. “So, did you guys get abducted as well?” He questions the two in forties get-up.

Amy and Rory share a look, Rory shrugging. “Not really. We were asked if we wanted to come. This is only temporary.”

“We live and die in New York,” Amy says, “it’s a fixed point. We had some trouble with weeping angels. We have to go back and I have to publish a book.”

“More than just the one,” Twelve murmurs, Bill sending him a querying look before realising he can’t see her. He holds out his hand. “Could I get my sunglasses back, please? I have a psychic link set up so I can use them to get around.”

“Oh!” Amy jerks, taking them off awkwardly, handing them over. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Twelve says, before leaning back in his chair like he does in his office, clasping his hands over his chest, elbows resting on the arms. “Williams’, explain how you got here to this planet.”

“Well,” Amy starts, “we got a letter, first, asking us if we’d like to go on one last big ol’ time travelling adventure with the Doctor.”

“We said yes, obviously,” Rory adds.

“She gave us a phone number to call if we did and when we called it, she told us that we’d have to buy return bus tickets to Pennsylvania. When we got there, she was waiting for us – she just dropped us off a couple of minutes ago, up the street, told us to head this way and listen out, because you wouldn’t look the same.”

“She?” Twelve questions, before Rory brings out a folded letter from his trouser pocket, sharing a low glance with Amy.

“I suppose you won’t be able to read this, but we recognised the Gallifreyan beside our names and by the signature.”

Bill peers at the paper as Rory lays it out on the table, immediately catching sight of the ‘Gallifreyan’ at either end of the page, the actual letter itself typed rather than handwritten, with the exception of the signature.

“It matches the art on your TARDIS!” Bill exclaims, peering closer. “Cool – is it some sort of writing?”

“Yes,” Rory says, before Twelve picks it up, holding it in front of his face. “How-”

“Sonic sunglasses,” Twelve answers, before frowning deeply, handing back the paper to him. “The person who signed it is the same person who sent me my invitation.” He takes out that wallet of his again, holding it out for everyone to see.

“This ‘Lady Larn’ must be pretty powerful, if she got us all here,” Jack says.

“I agree. Her purpose is unclear, but bringing us _here_ of all places…” Twelve says, looking up at the sky. “Time is confused. There’s something approaching. We’re all a part of it, I can tell. How did she capture you, Jack? And you – Martha, Mickey.”

“Shot in the head,” Jack replies.

“Wait, _what?_ ” Bill blinks. “With what, a stun gun?”

“No,” Jack looks at her in amusement, “I’m an abomination – Rose Tyler as the Bad Wolf brought me back to life forever. The power of the time vortex inside a human being was too much, she couldn’t control it. I’m forever living and dying over and over.”

“And I’m sorry you are,” Twelve adds. “You’ll get your peace eventually.”

“Is that the truth?” Jack questions, shaking his head like he doesn’t want to know the answer, reaching over to steal Twelve’s drink. “Anyway. Shot to the head, out go my lights – a couple of times, actually – and I wake up here in the city with a blindfold around my eyes. I think they did that before I woke up again, so I wouldn’t see them. Definitely heard them though. Cursed up a storm.”

“Lady Larn?” Martha questions.

“Probably, thought she sounded female, at least, though you obviously can’t judge a book by its cover,” Jack shrugs, sipping Twelve’s drink. “Ooh, nice – I didn’t know you liked alcohol, Doc.”

“It doesn’t get me drunk and this face has different tastes to the last few,” Twelve says nonchalantly. “I’m a lot older, now.”

“How old are you?” Amy bothers him, reaching to poke him a few times, “And why the Scottish accent?”

“Why not? You made me happy,” Twelve argues, looking in her direction, “You were my best friend.”

“Same, Raggedy Man,” Amy leans over, wrapping her arms around him sideways. “Ugh, you’re all bones, now. What happened to the bow tie?”

“Bow tie said bye-bye,” Twelve chuckles. “And your daughter happens to like the new me very much – even before she knew who I was!”

“You’ve seen Melody?”

Bill pipes up, “Who’s Melody?”

“River Song,” Rory says, as if that explains everything. At her confused look, he smiles to himself. “Melody Pond. She goes by River Song – she’s the Doctor’s wife.”

“Which makes us his in-laws,” Amy says, sounding pretty smug about something so _weird._

“I didn’t even think he _had_ in-laws,” Bill mutters.

“Melody had to come from some place, even if that’s us and a TARDIS,” Amy leans back into her own husband, shameless.

“Alright, that’s enough talking about your sex-life, Amelia,” Twelve grumbles, sighing extra-dramatically as Amy herself looks at him in surprise.

“Did you actually just say that? Your last face would have gone five shades of red before he even said the word _sex_.”

“I’m a grown-up, now,” Twelve waves her off. “Let’s get back to our dilemma. Martha, Mickey – how did you get here?”

“Straight-up abduction, man,” Mickey shakes his head. “We were just shopping for groceries, all casual like, then there’s a white light and we’re teleported here.”

“Well that obviously didn’t happen – you can’t be teleported across time and space just out of the blue,” Twelve scowls. “You’re no help.”

“Oi, it’s not like we wanted to be here,” Mickey replies, miffed. “We were going to get take-out, tonight.”

Bill watches Twelve sigh to himself, shaking his head, tapping the side of his sunglasses. Amy clears her throat to speak, but Bill has a feeling that her teacher is thinking up something.

“What did the letter say? I mean, did your sunglasses read it or not?”

“They did,” Twelve murmurs, mulling over something. “It was a message for me from…a friend. An old, old friend who I thought died.”

“Who?” Amy pesters.

“… _Romana_.”

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ten questions, his future self fiddling with the TARDIS underwires. “I mean, not that it’s _not_ nice to see you, but deliberately meeting me…”

“It wasn’t my idea, to be fair,” she says, puffing a piece of blonde hair away from her face. “I got an invite, see and it told me to pick you up. I’m just stabilising your TARDIS so she doesn’t go flying off, trying to get away from herself – she’s a sensitive soul, our girl.”

Ten watches as Thirteen – Thirteen, his supposedly _last_ regeneration, his last body, his last future – pats the TARDIS fondly before rolling out from underneath her, sitting up and grabbing her coat. _At least I keep the long coats,_ he thinks tiredly, still a little shaken from his last couple of adventures, one of which is muddled in his mind, a clear sign that more than one of himself had been involved. Meaning: his future self was involved, meaning: that _this_ future self was involved, the one in front of him, _meaning:_ she was doubling back…again.

“What kind of invite?” he questions, leaning against the coral pillar of his TARDIS. Thirteen had drove his TARDIS some place after hooking _her_ TARDIS to his, as if it needed towing. He doesn’t know when or where they are, but he knows unless he unhooks their TARDISes without her noticing, he’s going to be stuck with her until she undoes it herself.

Thirteen reaches into her pocket, bringing out her psychic paper, shaking it in his direction. Ten feels the heat of a new message on his own paper and brings it out, peering at the uniform handwriting on it.

_Doctor. There’s a party going on at the following space-time coordinates. Please pick up your tenth self, after Mars and the Tower of London. According to yourself, it’s a tricky pick-up and your own advice is to go get him before he gets the lei from the beach on Barcelona the Planet. Love, L. JL. – P.S., Mum is going to be there, so dress nicely._

“Who is ‘Mum’?” Ten questions, rather than focusing on the fact that apparently, this invite crosses multiple time-streams – the invitee having consulted with Thirteen’s future self.

“No clue, but apparently, they’ll judge me,” Thirteen says, worried. She flattens out her coat and brushes her hair out her face, swiping a bit of TARDIS muck across her cheek. “How do I look?”

“Should you care?” Ten questions sceptically.

Thirteen gives him a funny look, “This, coming from the incarnation that has gone through dozens of hair products trying out new looks.”

“Experimentation is nothing to complain about,” Ten defends himself. “I was trying to find my style!”

“I remember being you, no, you weren’t.” Thirteen rolls her eyes, sighing. “Well, let’s get going – we’ve got a party to attend!” She takes his hand, pulling him towards the door, barely giving him time to grab his trench-coat from the coral before she opens the doors up.

“Where are we?” Ten questions, getting his own grasp on her, forcing her to pause as he locks the TARDIS doors. Once he has, she doesn’t let up, pulling him forwards once again. He looks up and around, guessing sixty-second, sixty-third century – _maybe_ sixty-fourth – judging by the architecture. Hover-cars and hover-bikes alike move along metal roadways, not quite strong enough yet to go across air on their own without repercussions and along the way, he can see hover-plates moving hoards of people up and down between the city levels.

“Ase Len’sim,” Thirteen answers, hauling him to a bench, plopping down onto it. Ten copies her, recalling that this is exactly like how his younger siblings used to treat him, back in the House of Lungbarrow. It causes a certain asphyxiation in his chest, before he forces himself to remember that this is his future self – technically, the correct parallel would be ‘older sister bossing around her younger brother’.

“And where are we going in Ase Len’sim?” Ten inquires.

“Well, this is their capital city,” Thirteen states, taking out her sonic screwdriver – a bronze thing with lots of gadgets and a red end – and buzzing her psychic paper, “The city of Ceresot’uh. The party is apparently on the third level from the sun – so, third from the top, good we’re on the right level – at the Golden Grass Palisade Bridge. It started an hour ago.”

“We’re late?” Ten wrinkles his nose. “Oh.”

Thirteen nudges him with her elbow. “It’s alright. We’re _fashionably_ late. Grace period is usually two hours, yeah?” She twirls her sonic before gently pointing it to the left, a beeping starting. “There. Now we can find where we’re going. Easy-peasy.”

“Brilliant,” Ten’s lip twitches, feeling a little smug that his future self has a plan that is working. Thirteen grins at him, before they get up, speed-walking towards their destination.

* * *

“Is that our party, do you think?” Nine questions. River eyes the motley group on the level ground below, nodding. “Right. Let’s go see who they are, then.”

“We find out who wants us to meet with them,” River shoots her hand out, stopping him from moving towards the hover-plate to get down. “I know those people. If someone is trying to gather us all together…”

“And who is ‘us’?” Nine questions, glancing at the time travellers below – looking at Amy, Rory, his own twelfth incarnation, Captain Jack Harkness and three other companions that River has never met before and that Nine has _yet_ to meet.

River shakes her head, before stilling as Twelve looks up, sunglasses sucking in all the light as he looks slightly in her direction. She puts a finger to her lips, watching him look away, nodding slightly. _Keep quiet, my love,_ she thinks, trying not to wonder if this means his twelfth face hasn’t been to Darillium yet – because for her Doctor to act so blasé about her appearance if he’s already been to the Singing Towers would break her heart.

Not that she has time to be heart-broken, not when she has already been to the Library and already supposedly _died_. River needs to find out how she was saved, if she was _saved_ at all – there’s no proof this is a computer simulation or that she’s living in the Library database with Charlotte, but at the same time there’s no proof it _isn’t_. For all she knows, the Doctor’s tenth face saved her and Charlotte has made this elaborate scenario to keep her from being bored.

_That doesn’t explain the dress, though._

“Professor Song, if you have no answers for me, then you’re no help,” Nine pronounces. “So, if you’ll please excuse me-”

She grabs his hand, causing him to halt, stiffening. River wonders if it was a mistake to touch him, but doesn’t dwell on it – not when there are other incarnations of himself walking around. That in itself is hazardous, but just letting Nine prowl about without supervision would be downright dangerous.

“Those people down there are my loved ones and their friends. I don’t know how they got here or _why_ they are here, much like myself. You were invited to a party – that _is_ the party. I know them well enough to know they won’t just sit in that café forever. Trouble finds them easily.” River squeezes his hand lightly, not expecting him to take it gently, cupping it with his spare hand.

“River Song,” he says solemnly, “I have no idea who you are or who your family are and frankly, I don’t care. What I do care about, though, is how you’re a Time Lady who escaped Gallifrey and that is why I’m sorry.”

River’s brow furrows, “Sorry?”

“Yes, for this,” Nine says and then his hand snakes up her arm, jabbing into a muscle she didn’t even know was there, summoning a strangled yelp from her throat before her legs turn to jelly. River drops to her knees, feeling his arm wrap around her throat, choking her as he pulls her against his body. She tries to break his grip, but he has her arm behind her back, the one he’d jabbed like rubber against her side.

“B-bastard!” she curses him, struggling to breathe. In the end, River loses consciousness, falling to darkness – but not before she lets out a psychic yell.

_DOCTOR!_


	3. truth will out

Donna Noble’s apartment in the capital of Ase Len’sim is disturbingly normal. Eleven peers this way and that, spotting a pot-plant by the window and a bowl that holds two pieces of fruit and an upright maneki-neko cat that waves at him. A moments worth of investigating shows that the two pieces of fruit are what’s holding the cat straight.

As they enter, Donna insists he hangs up his coat and hat, which he does, the lack of purple enshrouding him making him feel open to anything thrown at him – lowering his barriers, piece by piece.

“How do you know this language?” Donna’s friend asks, a woman who has yet to be introduced even in passing.

“How do you?” Eleven returns, sitting down on a beige armchair.

“Always have,” she says, brushing a curly copper lock behind her ear as she sits opposite, on a dark blue sofa. “Since the day I was born. Genetic memory – I’ve never come across a language I don’t speak.”

“Oh?” Eleven raises an eyebrow, intrigued, “If you don’t mind me asking, what species are you?”

“Enough of that,” Donna interrupts. “What about you? Is it to do with how you were staring at me? Were you kidnapped by men in robes too?”

 _Men in robes?_ Eleven straightens, “Say that again.”

Donna narrows her eyes, pointing at him. “Answer my questions first, mate! This is an interrogation!”

Eleven straightens his tie, feeling a little rebellious. “No. You’re the anomaly, here. I was _invited_.”

“To what? A costume party? There’s not that many Victorians walking around.” Donna scoffs, crossing her arms.

“Hey! Don’t knock the suit,” Eleven grouches, becoming surly.

“I’ll knock it if I like,” Donna replies sassily, before twisting to her friend. “Larn, you okay? Baby stressed out?”

“We’re fine, Donna,” the friend – ‘Larn’ – shakes her head, patting her enlarged stomach. “Arky and I are good.”

“Arky?” Eleven questions. “You look like you’ve swallowed a planet.”

“She looks beautiful,” Donna says staunchly, patting Larn’s shoulder. “Ignore him.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” Larn actually looks a little amused by them both, stretching out her back. “Ugh, this is horrid.”

“How long till you give birth?” Eleven asks, genuinely curious.

“Less than a day,” Larn says, surprising him. “I can tell. She’s already twisted around the right way for it. I just hope I don’t have another incident when she’s born.”

“Incident?” Eleven looks to Donna for an answer, but she seems as confused as he is.

“What do you mean, ‘incident’?” the human woman asks, worried. “Larn, is something going to happen?”

“Might.” Larn finishes stretching. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing to be scared of – it’s happened once or twice before. So, what’s the _real_ name of our captive?”

“I told you – John Smith,” Eleven shakes his head. It’s too dangerous for Donna to know he’s _the Doctor_ , no. “Just because you don’t believe me, doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Donna purses her lips, crossing her arms over her chest before sitting down beside Larn and sighing, looking slightly desperate now.

“I’m sorry for forcing you up here, it’s just- it’s just I’ve been here for nearly two years now and Larn is the _only_ one who is able to understand me. I appeared out of bloody _nowhere_ after trying to run away from these creepy mugger-types in cult robes and- and-” to Eleven’s misery, she starts crying, Larn wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He goes over without thinking, kneeling in front of her.

“Hey – _hey_ , I’ll get you home, I promise you, Donna Noble.”

Donna sniffs, before making a face, Larn looking at him sharply. “How do you know my name?”

Eleven swallows, realising his mistake. “Because I know you. Time travel is hard and I _know_ you. I’m so sorry, Donna, for everything.”

Donna winces then, hand going to her head and he knows it’s too much. Reaching up with two hands, he sends her to sleep, Larn making a distressed noise.

“What did you do to her?” she questions, lying her back on the sofa. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the Doctor,” Eleven says, standing up and fixing his bow-tie. “And Donna is my friend. I’m going to fetch the TARDIS, bring her home – I’ll erase this time from her mind, before it does any damage. I’m surprised it’s not already nudged something out of place.”

“What do you mean?” Larn struggles to stand, Eleven offering a hand, frowning at the familiar sight of a _shimmer_ on her wrist. “How are you the Doctor? The Doctor doesn’t look like you and- and Donna, what do you mean by damage?”

Eleven looks at her in surprise, looking down at the shimmer. “Would I recognise you if I turned this off?” he questions. Larn blinks, frowning at him.

“I don’t know. Would you? Are you really the Doctor?”

“I am really the Doctor,” he replies, taking his sonic out of his pocket. “See? Even have a sonic. So, who are you, Lady Larn?”

“…tell me about Donna, first, please. She’s my friend.”

Eleven purses his lips, pointing the sonic at her shimmer, not expecting her to disarm him so abruptly, grabbing the sonic and drop-kicking him across her living room to the beige armchair. Winded and wide-eyed, Eleven watches her tuck the sonic delicately into her belt as he catches his breath, before scrambling to his feet as she takes a stun baton out of the sofa arm, holding it steadily despite her burgeoning belly.

“Donna. Tell me. _Now._ ”

“Something happened – a turning point in space-time so big, parallels universes were created around choices she made,” Eleven starts, speaking hurriedly. “Donna took a copy of all my memories into her head and it was too much. It was killing her and I had to make her forget.”

“You made her forget everything,” Larn says, sounding shaken, blinking tears out of dark brown eyes. “You didn’t just make her forget your memories, you made her forget _everything_. All the good she did, all the things that made her a better Donna.”

“I know and I’ll forever be sorry, but I don’t regret it – not when it saved her life,” Eleven says.

“That wasn’t your choice to make!” Larn shouts. “Donna told me what happened the day she woke up, after everyone was going on about planets in the sky! She’d lost so much time – _so_ much time! She went to psychiatrists and therapists, trying to figure out if she’d had some kind of psychotic break.”

Eleven cringes, “I know, I know – I watched, I made sure she was going to be okay and she _was_. She found Shaun and they got married-”

“Shaun was gay. Shaun and Donna got divorced.” Larn interrupts. “Obviously, you didn’t look far enough into her future. She was alone and her mum died the week before she was taken – her granddad the year before. Donna was _alone_ , Dad.”

_Dad._

Eleven’s hearts pound and he suddenly remembers something very important indeed.

“Larn – that’s what Susan was, before she chose the name _Susan Foreman._ ” Eleven steps forwards, hesitant, staying clear of the stun baton as he gently pokes the woman’s baby belly. “Arkytior Larn. Arky. Your baby…she’s my granddaughter from the future, who travels with my first face. Lady Larn. Who are you?”

Larn puts the stun baton back in the sofa before handing him back his sonic, letting him deactivate the shimmer. Copper fades into honey blonde and a previously rosy-cheeked face becomes paler as more green undertones come to light. Brown eyes become grey-green. Eleven reaches out to touch her cheek, feeling like he’s facing a ghost.

“Jenny,” he breathes, voice shuddering. “You’re alive. You’re _alive._ ”

“I’m alive,” she confirms quietly, reaching up, hand pressing against his wrist. “The Source brought me back.”

Eleven shakes his head, stepping forwards into her space, hugging his daughter tightly, shutting his eyes as they sting with tears. Jenny hugs him back for a short time, before pulling away. Eleven holds both his hands to her face, pressing their foreheads together, smiling as she lets out a little gasp, his mental presence greeting hers and _oh_ , she is so _young_ – barely two centuries old. _It’s you,_ he thinks, _my daughter. It’s really you._

“What is this?” Jenny questions in a hush, even though her question rages loud and clear in her mind.

 _This is what we are,_ he says to her, _telepathic creatures. Anything you don’t want me to see, imagine a door and hide everything behind it – but if you reach out, Arkytior should be there, Jenny. You’re her mother, you should be able to feel her. I’m going to send you a package in your head. It’s a little trick for sharing information._

 _Okay- oh!_ Jenny jerks slightly in body, Eleven watching as she unravels the information using instincts she hadn’t been aware of, taking in and absorbing techniques, methods and warnings about telepathic communication – things he should have taught her when she was a baby, or rather, a fully-grown generated anomaly. He can’t help but feel guilty – some of it leaking through – about leaving her behind.

Though, forget about the pain of her dying in his arms, it was downright irresponsible of him to leave her body, her _Time Lord biology_ just sitting there on some backwater planet to be stolen. Even if she had lived in the end, leaving her was a mistake that he’s never going to make again.

 _Don’t feel bad,_ he hears her whisper to him in his mind, in this small, shared space between them. He’s not used to this – the last people he’s shared mind-space with were human or at least partially human. Reinette didn’t have a bubble of space for them to linger in and neither did River. _Who’s River?_ Jenny questions. _And who’s Reinette?_

 _Reinette was Mistress to the King and Queen of France, in the far past,_ Eleven says, smiling to himself as he recalls both her and River Song. _As for River, she’s my wife. Our timelines are back to front, though, so we have to be careful. Here – see._

He imagines his wife in all her glory, angel curls and scarlet lipstick. His flawless queen of time and space.

 _Hell in high heels,_ Jenny laughs, hearing a wisp of thought. _My step-mother?_

 _Of a sort, though you’d have to talk to her about it._ Eleven replies to her before sending Jenny a small series of mental packages, mostly on more telepathic lessons, but some on the biology of Time Lords, others on important Gallifreyan customs such as Names and most importantly – in his opinion – the Rules of Time. _There we go…_

Pulling away from her mind gently, Eleven lowers his hands from her face, aware that their mental conversation didn’t take that much time at all. He watches her for a moment as she blinks into being again, glancing down.

“Arkytior. Susan.”

“Try not to tell her that last one,” Eleven warns. “You only know because I’ve told you. You might want to sit down, however – you’re new to telepathy and it won’t be long before you feel it.”

“Alright, Dad,” Jenny sits back down on the sofa gently. “Do you mind turning my shimmer on again? It’s just, I’ve had to run a few times when human authorities try to find out what I am. Messaline might be home, but home changes a lot.”

“Messaline? Right, yes – what did happen to that old mud-ball?” Eleven reactivates her shimmer, sad to see her blonde turn to a copper that matches Donna’s, no matter how much he wants to be ginger himself.

“It’s not much of a mud-ball,” Jenny raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Eleven asks, blinking.

“…why don’t you find out by yourself?” Jenny replies, “I think I like your confused face.”

Eleven points at her. “Tell me, missy. I’m your dad, you’ve got to do what I say.”

“Is that how it works? Luckily for me, I never do what I’m told!” Jenny grins. Eleven huffs, before catching sight of Donna again, good mood dissipating. Jenny follows his line of sight and silence falls in the apartment.

“She has to go back to her own time.”

“Does she though?” Jenny questions with a quiet desperation. “I promise, I can keep her safe here – I can make sure she doesn’t remember!”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t already recalled everything and burnt her brain from the inside-out, Jenny,” Eleven snaps. “It is too dangerous. There are too many possibilities. She’s already been triggered once before, by strange things.”

“Maybe she just needs to adjust, to train the boundary like a muscle-”

“It _doesn’t work like that._ ” Eleven meets his daughter’s eyes. “Her life is at risk every moment she stays here. I have to make the hard decisions, Jenny, if I want my people to live.”

“Like a general?” she questions, knowing it strikes deep, knowing he remembers their conversations about soldiers and war. She does it on purpose and Eleven can’t find himself hating Jenny for it.

His lip curls and he glowers at her. “Yes, Jenny. Like a general. I’ve lost too many people in my life – too many people whose lives hinge on me. Donna was supposed to have a happy life, but I couldn’t ensure it, not without meddling – not without getting involved in things I shouldn’t have meddled in. I make the hard choices.”

“Shouldn’t she get the choice to live or die?”

Eleven looks at Jenny with barely concealed regret. “I think we both know which one she would pick.” He reaches over, only to freeze at Jenny’s next words.

“I can’t do this alone, Dad – I need her, please. She’s my best friend.”

Eleven looks at her, struggling. Everything tells him to take Donna now, for her own sake, but Jenny is crying. His outstretched arm changes direction without his permission and he holds Jenny’s hand in his own, crouching in front of her.

“You won’t be alone,” he whispers, “not ever again, do you hear? I’m so, so sorry I left – I had no idea. You might be Gallifreyan, but you’re no Time Lord, not yet.”

Jenny gives a teary laugh. “What’s the difference?”

Eleven smiles, “I asked the same thing. Long story short – Gallifreyan’s can’t regenerate and aren’t allowed to travel through time. I’m the last- I’m _one_ of the last of the Time Lords, at least so long as there might be others out there, hiding. Also, Time Lords aren’t always Gallifreyans. An old student of mine, Ace, she was a Time Lady and she was human. My…my brother wiped her memory of the Time War and what she learned on Gallifrey when it started getting too dangerous for her to continue fighting, though. I don’t know what happened to her.”

“It all seems rather rude, this mind-wiping without permission,” Jenny wipes her eyes, reaching out to take Donna’s hand, squeezing it lightly. “Is that something you do a lot?”

“Not often, but too much still, I think,” Eleven admits. “You’re a good girl, Jenny.”

“I-” Jenny starts, pausing before shaking her head and continuing. “I called myself Jennifer Larn, on Ase Len’sim. I mean, most people just call me Lady Larn though – I work for the government as a translator. Is that from you?”

“Most likely – and you’re probably right, too, about the genetic memory thing,” Eleven says cheerily. “Lady Larn, now that’s a throwback. Your daughter is going to be brilliant, by the way.”

“Good,” Jenny smiles, rubbing at her eyes again before motioning to Donna. “Will you make her forget, then?”

“Just me,” Eleven says. “Would it be cruel to make her think she fainted in the shop because you said you were going into labour?”

“Maybe a little, but it’ll work,” Jenny replies, smile fading. “Hop to it, Dad – who knows how long she’ll be asleep. We only have till she wakes.”

* * *

“Holy Rassilon!” Thirteen exclaims, before back-pedalling into Ten, who nearly falls over his own feet as she turns, pushing him behind a wall.

“What is it?”

“Companions!” she hisses, eyes wide. “ _Our_ companions! Martha Jones, Mickey Smith, Captain Harkness and even some of _my_ companions that you haven’t met yet! With past me!”

“Say what?” Ten pops his head around the corner, not even having to move much considering his Thirteenth self is a whole two heads shorter than him. She tries to get him to stop, even smushing her hand over his face, but Ten gets a pretty good look at the table.

There’s no past Thirteen at that table.

Suspicious, Ten takes a step back, scrutinising his future self. She puffs another piece of hair off her face, crossing her arms and then uncrossing them, seemingly not knowing what to do with her own limbs. Ten – hyper-aware of her discomfort – crosses his own arms, staring her down, waiting and feeling minorly embarrassed that his own future self is so _childish_.

After a long few moments, she mutters, “I _might_ have gotten a new set of regenerations.”

Ten’s blood runs cold. “You got _what?_ ”

“I got a new set of regenerations!” Thirteen exclaims louder, before they both hiss at the same time, grabbing at their pockets for their psychic papers. Bringing them out at the same time, the two Doctor’s flip them open, revealing the blocky, distressed letters.

**_DOCTOR!_ **

The thing with psychic paper, though is that it’s _psychic_ – though it might relay a message, it also carries thoughts and feelings. The exclamation, however, is so powerful that Ten gets a flash of memory along with emotion – of his ninth self digging his hand into a nerve-centre in the person’s arm, before twisting them into a hold so they can see the skyline, a medium-sized declaring a bakery-café open.

“They’re on a roof,” Ten steps forwards, past Thirteen out onto the street, looking up. Above where his past and future companions sit, there is the billboard he’d seen in the flash. The woman’s fear and anger still reverberate through him, echoing and fading both at the same time and he pushes away his elation at seeing Jack, Mickey and Martha, turning to look up at the opposing building he’d been hiding behind.

 _Terraced pub garden,_ he thinks as he spots the greenery on the fourth floor, looking to the ground floor and marching up to a waiter, grabbing his sleeve.

“How do I get to the roof?” he demands.

“Back- back stairs?” the waiter answers, confused. “But there’s a hover-”

“Thank-you,” Ten says before bustling through the busy pub, swiftly followed by a panicked Thirteen. “So much for a party!”

“Ten, that was my wife that our past self was strangling!” she informs him, causing him to trip up on the stairs, Converse catching on the glass. Thirteen treads past him hurriedly, rushing out of sight as Ten hauls himself to his feet. _Wife,_ he thinks, before wondering _what in all the universes_ their future wife thought she was doing, prancing around and obviously _provoking_ their ninth self – their ninth self who was probably, most definitely from before they met Rose.

As he exits the stairwell, having traversed the four flights, he finds himself – himself, quite literally, self number nine – laid out on the ground, holding a bleeding nose as Thirteen checks the pulse of a woman with golden blonde curls that drift off her face in the wind…

“That’s River Song,” Ten chokes out, remembering her in the Library, remembering how she died for him.

_It’ll burn out both your hearts and don’t think you’ll regenerate!_

_You took me to Darillium to see the Singing Towers. What a night that was. The Towers sang, and you cried._

_If you die here, it’ll mean I’ll have never met you._

“Why would we marry her?” he demands Thirteen, “Why would we put ourselves through that, knowing what’ll happen to her?”

“Because I love her,” Thirteen says, picking her up awkwardly before clearing her throat. “Do you mind taking her?”

Ten wants to say _yes_ , but he snaps his jaw shut at the pain in Thirteen’s face, taking his future wife in his arms, holding her far easier than Thirteen did. He watches as she turns to Nine, furious beyond belief.

“You _idiot_ ,” she snaps, “Why would you do that?”

“None of your business,” Nine says, looking between them, wiping his nose, edging towards a hover-plate. “Cor, you pack a punch, don’t you, missy?”

“I’m the Doctor,” Thirteen declares frostily, “Your future self. I’d _hope_ so.”

Nine’s eyes go wide. “You’re my what?”

“Me too,” Ten shifts River Song as he adds his two pence to the conversation. Nine bristles.

“Great. _Great._ I have three regenerations left and I waste them on _you two._ ”

“You _three,_ ” comes a new voice, old and angry. Ten twists, only to see one of the men he’d not recognised among his companions in the doorway. Behind him are all the companions – all six of them. It reminds him starkly of that trip from the Medusa Cascade, towing Earth all the way home. “I am the Doctor, too.”

“Woah, it’s the first one I met!” Mickey exclaims, grinning, “Both of them, here at the _same_ time! Martha, I need a picture as proof-”

“This is not the time for taking selfies, Mickey Smith,” the unnumbered Doctor says crisply, pushing his sunglasses up his nose before stalking forwards. Nine barely avoids another punch and Ten belatedly wonders if he should join in, before two of the companions come over to him.

“Melody,” the woman says, sounding upset as the man checks her pulse and eyes. “What happened to her?”

“This tosser was going to kidnap her,” the unnumbered Doctor glares at Nine from behind his sunglasses. “For some banal reason.”

“She’s a Time Lady! She wouldn’t answer my questions or tell me how she escaped the Lock!” Nine exclaims, the unnumbered Doctor growling.

“ _Technically_ , you buffoon, she isn’t a Time Lady – she never attended the Academy. She isn’t even a Gallifreyan.”

“Time Ladies don’t have to be Gallifreyan,” Thirteen interjects. Nine looks to her, smiling fakely.

“I know, sweetheart. Your supposed _wife_ has been exposed to the Time Vortex, though and _that_ can only happen in front of the Infinite Schism, as you well know.”

Ten frowns, glancing down at River, seeing Nine’s point. _How are you a Time Lady?_ He thinks to himself, opening up his senses for the first time in a while, reaching out and finding that familiar tang of time threaded around her. In his arms, he can already see her throat going blue, though and if he concentrates deeply – missing whatever insults Nine and Unnumbered are throwing at each other – he can feel the beat of her hearts.

 _She isn’t Gallifreyan, my arse,_ Ten looks to Unnumbered, frowning deeply.


End file.
